


The Sun Still Rises

by whitherwaywill



Series: within the confines of canon [9]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, So much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29273871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitherwaywill/pseuds/whitherwaywill
Summary: Voldemort is gone, but he took so many others with him. And the day after the Battle of Hogwarts, the sun still rises.
Relationships: Angelina Johnson/Fred Weasley/George Weasley, Angelina Johnson/George Weasley
Series: within the confines of canon [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1739902
Kudos: 2





	The Sun Still Rises

A part of George was shocked when the sun finally began to rise. 

It started with a faint glow to the east, where the pitch-black night began to fade into a bright, bright blue. He tensed at the sight, rigid at the mere suggestion that this horrible, awful night had an end, and his heels knocked back against the castle wall. George barely felt his toes vibrating at the impact, numb as they were. 

He had been sitting outside practically all night. Attempts to clean up the castle after that last definitive battle — The Battle of Hogwarts, they were calling it — were abandoned a mere hour after they relocated the bodies from the Great Hall. The celebrations had begun not long after. George – 

George couldn’t celebrate. Not when Fred — his twin, his best friend, his better half — lay cold and still and _not alive_ in the room their mum had found for him. He had abandoned the Great Hall, he remembered that much; had slipped out in the split second his mum had looked away from him to tend to someone else. Somehow, he had found his way to the castle ramparts. 

His legs dangled over the side of the castle. The cold of the stone seeped into his shoulder where it was pressed against the side of the crenellation, but George could barely feel it. He could barely feel anything. 

Fred was gone. 

George had thought that this night would never end. He would always be stuck in this limbo world, where his twin was newly not here. Newly gone. Newly — newly _dead_. 

The dim light emanating from the east marked the end. The end of the war, the end of the night, the end of these endless hours where all George could do was feel this hopeless, helpless grief that burned through his otherwise numb limbs. 

Hope flickered for a moment when he caught sight of the early morning light. There would be light — the darkness wasn’t forever, George wouldn’t be frozen forever. But it was quickly devoured by the Fiendfyre raging through him, the irrational anger that the world dared to continue turning, that the sun dared to rise on a universe where Fred was no longer alive. 

Tears welled up at the corners of his eyes, blurring the colors the sky was turning into an indistinct beige. He looked down, swiping at the edges of his eyes. He couldn’t cry. He was George; he was the class clown, the prankster, he was —

He was no one. Without Fred, he was no one. 

Footsteps sounded behind him, seeming to echo in the silence of the pre-dawn light. George turned his head slowly, muscles creaking with disuse.

Angelina stood behind him, bundled into two cloaks. Her hair was messy, and she had a bandage wrapped around her shoulder. 

One look at her face, and he knew she _knew._

Whenever anyone saw Fred or George — or both together — there was always that moment of hesitation, uncertainty written across their face as they internally debated which twin was which. Their entire family did it; most of their friends did it; even Angelina would have that split second where she guessed who was who. The difference was, Angelina always got it right. 

The difference was, this time, Angelina didn’t hesitate. “George.”

No one would ever hesitate again. Everyone would know, soon enough, that George was the only Weasley twin alive anymore. And anyone George met here on out wouldn’t even _know_ George was a twin. 

It was unthinkable. It was inconceivable. It was – It was _illogical._

George swallowed around his dry throat, looking out over the grounds. “I killed three Death Eaters,” he said, shaking his head. “I killed — it didn’t help.”

Angelina’s shoes clicked dully against the stone of the ramparts as she walked to him. Brushing a hand across his shoulder, she hoisted herself up to sit next to him. She didn’t let her feet dangle over the edge like George – she wedged her legs up beside her in what little space was left, tucking herself against him. 

After being out in the frigid air for so long, Angelina was unbearably, wonderfully warm against his side. 

“I’m sorry,” Angelina said hoarsely. 

“Yeah,” George said. He didn’t recognize his own voice. It was flat, lifeless, and so much _less_ now that there was no one to begin or end his sentences. “Me too.”

“It won’t get better,” she said, not a question, not quite a statement. Fear and grief weighed down her words. 

Another dry sob wrenched through George’s chest and up his throat. At the last moment, he turned it into a laugh; a dry, bitter hyena laugh that was nothing like his. Nothing like Fred’s. “It can’t get worse.”

Angelina had two hands: one for Fred and one for George. Now, she clung to George’s hand with both of her own, like it could make up for his missing twin. 

It couldn’t. Nothing could. George felt like a part of himself had been yanked out. Like he had been torn in two, his connection to his other half severed wholly and completely and horribly. 

“It can’t get worse,” Angelina echoed, her voice muffled by his shoulder. “I won’t let it.”

At that, George couldn’t hold back the tears. They streamed down his face, twin rivers of grief, leaking out of the gaping, open wound that was Fred’s ghost. He squeezed her hands back as much as he could, their knuckles straining white with the effort it took to hold onto each other. 

The sky began to turn a cotton candy pink at the edges, giving way to a molten yellow that reflected in bright white patches across the Black Lake, turning it golden. 

Angelina laid her head on his shoulder. And she, George, and the empty hole that used to belong to Fred watched the sun rise. 


End file.
